


Strangers

by ladymacbeth99



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Artist Loki, Gen, Mute Loki, Odin's B+ Parenting, Post-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymacbeth99/pseuds/ladymacbeth99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Silvertongue is robbed of his voice, so he turns to another method of communication. </p>
<p>In which Odin tries to parent, but he’s terrible at listening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my tumblr friends foreverlokid and theotherodinson, and all my other followers who gave me ideas for describing Loki's bedroom. I'll add more acknowledgements if I manage to figure out who gave me what idea...

Loki’s trial had been brief, for there was little doubt as to his guilt.

As if Thor’s testimony were not enough to confirm the mayhem he had wrought on Midgard, Loki himself did not object to any of the charges brought against him. He listened quietly to the litany of crimes with a smirk on his lips, as if he found the whole situation most amusing.

That was the most galling part of all, Odin thought. It was unsettling, to see Loki so cold and unrepentant, when Odin could remember the days when even a gentle chastisement would result in a flood of tears. He remembered a young man that was reserved and respectful, who occasionally mouthed off to authority but rarely to his father, who was anxious to please and emulate his family. Odin did not know who this gaunt, shadowy creature was that had taken his lost son’s place, but he wanted to smack the smug look off his face and demand where the real Loki was.

The child he grieved for had not come home after all.

In this very room, he had once held a small Loki on his lap, for as a tot he would be still and quiet so long as he was held, and wailed whenever he was set down.

Now Odin faced his son from the throne under quite different circumstances. The time had come to pass sentence on the prisoner.

Thor, who had been instrumental at the trial, was notably absent today—it was difficult for his firstborn, Odin knew, because his boundless heart still held some affection for the stranger staring out of his brother’s eyes, crushed though it may be. Frigga had demanded to be present, but Odin had charged her not to interfere, and so she stood one pace behind the throne, clasping her hands together when he knew very well she wanted nothing more than to rush forward and embrace her boy.

His wrists and ankles bound in chains, Loki stared up at him with a mocking smile. He spared not a glance for the woman who raised him, and he seemed utterly unconcerned about his fate.

“Wherever you go, there is ruin, bloodshed, and death,” Odin said.

“Ah yes, and as we all know, you bring nothing but peace and prosperity to the realms _you_ subjugate.”

“Silence! You are in no position to mock.” Odin’s blood boiled, though it registered with him from Loki’s satisfied smirk that he was giving the prisoner exactly what he wanted. “All this blood on your hands, and for what? Because Loki desires a throne.”

“It is my birthright.” Cool, collected, confident.

“Your birthright? Your birthright was _to die_. If I had not taken you in, you would not be here now to hate me.”

Loki snorted. “Are you seeking gratitude from me? Would that you had smashed my skull in with a rock while you had the chance. That’s what most people do when they stumble across the brood of vermin.”

Frigga was completely white at this statement—Odin saw her sway slightly, one hand pressed over her mouth, but she kept silent just as he had admonished her to.

He knew not where this callous disregard for life—Loki’s own and that of others—came from, but it disturbed him.

“Frigga is the only reason you are still alive,” said Odin grimly. “Yet your punishment shall be more fitting than death.”

At the All-Father’s command, the guards forced Loki onto his knees.

“I take from you your power, which you are unworthy to wield.”

Most sorcerers screamed in pain when he forced the magic from their bodies, as if being branded with hot coals. But Loki merely gritted his teeth through the process and, though he was breathing heavily and perspiring, he sneered at the All-Father as if to challenge him, _Is that all?_

Odin’s grip on Gungir tightened. “And I take your greatest weapon of all.”

A spark of life in Loki’s eyes—a hint of confusion. Satisfied, Odin continued, “Never again shall your words poison the minds of others. You who were once called Silvertongue shall be silenced.” He paused. “Have you any final words?”

Odin had hoped to find panic in Loki’s face—hoped perhaps that he would plead or even try to manipulate him—any sign that this was the boy he once knew. But the shadow of Loki before him bared his teeth in a horrible parody of a grin.

“Let my last words be to curse you, All-Father.”

“So be it.”

This time, Loki screamed, until he didn’t.

 

* * *

 

To Loki’s bewilderment, the veritable legion of guards led him, not to his holding cell in the dungeons, nor even to a permanent cell in the maximum security vault, but to his old chambers in the south wing of the palace. He was to be placed under house arrest, they explained, with sentinels at every entrance, and he was to submit to routine inspections of his chambers and possessions. He was allowed no visitors save the royal family.

It was not an unheard-of sentence for nobility that had committed a crime—but given that he was but a Jotun foundling, Loki had rather thought the privileges of his status would be revoked.

As they began unlocking his shackles, Loki grinned to himself. After all the All-Father’s indignant blustering, this gilded cage was the best punishment he could think of? No flogging, no being strung up on a gibbet for the ravens to tear at his flesh, just being surrounded in comforts to contemplate his actions in silence? Odin had truly lost all imagination.

He chuckled noiselessly. Even the confinement aspect would not be so terrible, for his quarters consisted of five spacious rooms: an antechamber for entertaining guests he never had, a study, a bedchamber, a bath, and a changing room.

Yet as he entered, he felt suddenly nauseous. The finery of the second prince’s chambers—he could not think of them as _his_ chambers—seemed almost garish to him now.

On the north wall hung several tapestries depicting some of the folktales he had most loved in his youth—tales of clever heroes that conquered their enemies with trickery, and well-intentioned thieves that won the hearts of princesses—the gold thread was bespelled so that the figures subtly seemed to move, to breathe.

There was an ebony nightstand, noticeably bulkier and sturdier than the rest of the furniture, because it had once belonged to his grandfather (no, the man he once called grandfather). On it stood a vase with a few delicate sprigs of lavender, freshly plucked. Loki knew they came from the queen’s garden, that she must have placed them there as a gesture of welcome, and his throat closed up at the thought.

After months of sleeping on hard surfaces, or not at all, the ornate canopy bed piled with silken sheets and emerald pillows seemed almost absurdly luxurious. 

Loki went at once to the changing room—nothing but mirrors and wardrobes bursting with clothes for every occasion; surely nothing could trouble him here.

But the mirrors made his haggard, unhealthy appearance inescapable, each reflection glaring suspiciously at the strangers in all the others. He pulled open the oak doors, engraved to resemble the branches of Yggdrasil—at least, he thought in satisfaction, he could have some small measure of control once again, even in such a simple matter as the clothes he wore.

The wardrobes were practically empty. No more armor—nothing hard or sharp, nothing that could protect him in a fight remained—nothing suitable for formal appearances in court, or for traveling, or for riding. Even his boots had been taken, replaced with rows of slippers like the ones he had worn in prison.

The message was clear: he would never leave these apartments or do anything useful again. He was a defanged serpent, in every way.

No longer able to curse, he contented himself with a rude gesture at the mirrors to express his frustration.

There was nothing left but plain, soft garments of wool and linen, not unlike the tunic he had been given to wear in his holding cell. The colors were all dull and muted—save for one item he had never seen before. A soft jade dressing-gown, delicately embroidered with leaves and vines. Stitched with a mother’s care.

He slammed the wardrobe shut and fled.

The study, on the other hand, was just as Loki had left it—was it truly only one year ago?

In most respects, Loki was painfully neat, but when it came to his desk, he engaged in what he liked to call organized chaos, the method of which none but he could understand. The room was lined with shelves crammed with potion ingredients—innocuous items such as bundles of dried heather and sage; more combustible materials such as the vial of dragon’s blood; rare things such as the moonflower nectar, which could be harvested only on a certain mountaintop in Alfheim.

Loki was surprised the All-Father had not confiscated or destroyed all of this, since he had made his mistrust perfectly clear. But it was all useless now, without his seidr or his voice to speak the incantations that would give his potions their potency.

The other possessions in this room seemed to be untouched as well, though none but he could comprehend their value.

The dull white crystal on the top shelf held no magical properties, but Loki remembered how it had sparkled in the sun when little Thor held it up, exclaiming, _Look what I found, brother! It must be a treasure. You must use it for one of your spells._ The iron thimble that had dropped from Mother’s apron pocket one day. The conch shell he had found when exploring tide pools in Vanaheim, the vial of sand he collected that day to remember the first time Father brought him to another realm all by himself. The fragments of eggshell from the nest a mockingbird once built on his windowsill. The bracelet of braided leather cord—had his wrist ever been small enough to fit inside that tiny circle?

Tucked between books and scrolls and draughts, Loki had hoarded a millennium’s worth of memories.

_It’s all the way I left it._

Wiping the traitorous moisture from his cheeks and struggling to breathe evenly, Loki realized this was not quite true. There were gaps in his bookshelves. Perhaps Odin had deprived him of the most dangerous spellbooks or philosophy tomes that might encourage sedition or violence—but after a quick inventory, he could find no common theme among the missing titles. One of them, in fact, was an illustrated volume of fairy tales that the All-Mother had taught him to read by. What could be the harm in letting him keep that?

Surely they could not realize the cruelty in being confined to these rooms, which were as strange to Loki as if he had never seen them before.

He could see what they were doing—forcing him to fill the shoes of the old Loki once again. Trying to re-shape him back into the simpering, shrinking second prince. But one Loki had fallen into the Void, and quite another one had come out. The others did not seem to grasp that fact.

_Loki Odinson never existed at all. He was merely a fiction—a farcical one at that—I cannot believe I was ever gullible enough to believe in him. And yet they all want to resurrect him!_

Despite himself, Loki slumped onto the bed and blew out the candle on his—on the nightstand. He wanted the chamber darkened so he no longer had to look at it. He immediately regretted this.

The arched ceiling above his canopy came alive with thousands of twinkling stars, drifting and spinning ever so slowly, casting a soft pearly glow on the room below.

Centuries ago Odin, observing how enamored Loki was with the stars, had enchanted his ceiling to mimic the Jormungand System—or the Milky Way, as the mortals called it. How strange young Loki had once thought it, after Heimdall explained that the people of Midgard thought the streaks of stardust across their sky resembled spilled milk. The ancients of Asgard had instead seen a gigantic serpent writhing across the galaxy, encircling the mortal realm.

Loki knew every constellation in it by heart, from watching their progress every night before falling asleep. Back when he was young and full of wonder at simple things, back when it seemed the universe was beautiful and vast with possibilities.

He never thought he would see this again.

There were moments in the past year when he thought he would never again sleep in a comfortable bed, would never again have a full belly or warm clothes. Would never again experience tenderness or safety.

_You are an outcast now_ , he had told himself over and over; _you have no home to go to. No family. No name. It is best to accept that and keep running. Do not long for Asgard, you do not need them. You can carve yourself a new identity all your own._

Yet here he was.

He dug his fingers into his silk coverlet and pulled it over his head—childish perhaps though it was, he could not bear to behold the ghosts in this room.

It was for the best, perhaps, that his sobs could make no sound.

 

* * *

 

Loki had not intended to let himself sleep uninterrupted for more than an hour or two—how else could he evade the nightmares? Perhaps it was the influence of these familiar surroundings that tricked his unconscious into feeling safe enough to sleep, but his eyelids were leaden and he succumbed.

The nightmares inevitably found him, and when he jolted awake, he panicked when he could not hear his own screams.

He breathed deeply, reorienting himself. Trying to laugh off his own forgetfulness, he lurched to the nightstand and washed the sheen of sweat off his face.

_Nothing is wrong with your hearing, you fool. You have no voice to scream with._

In that terrible moment between sleeping and waking, it had seemed his voice was lost in the cries of frightened mortals and firing explosions.

Unwilling to examine his dream any more, he stepped onto his balcony in the hopes that the cool pre-dawn air would calm him.

The stone verandah, which overlooked the palace gardens, connected Loki’s quarters with Thor’s. Long ago, they had used this common space for stargazing and talking late into the night. It was shielded from the elements by an invisible magical barrier, so they had often watched snow falling on the moonlit hedges below, the bubbling fountains freezing into motionless arcs of ice.

Loki peered over at Thor’s doorway. There were heavy burgundy curtains blocking his room from view—strange, Loki thought, since Thor always wanted open air and light.

_Perhaps he does not want to face me._

But it may have been something else Thor could not face—for their shared verandah had a view of the slowly-reconstructing Bifröst.

 

* * *

 

That morning, the king and queen breakfasted together in tense silence.

Usually, when faced with difficult decisions, Odin talked through his doubts with his wife, for there was no trust or understanding like that which grew between a couple that had been married for ten thousand years. He appreciated her good sense and compassion, which he relied on to check his calculating nature.

But ever since Loki fell, they had difficulty knowing what to say to each other. They were like polite strangers, occupying the same room but exchanging only trite pleasantries.

Odin knew he needed to break this cycle of coldness between them. Frigga seemed to bite her tongue so often these days, when he would have preferred her to lash out—then, at least, he would know her mind.

He felt Frigga’s glances at him were reproachful, and he could bear the tension no longer.

“What would you have me do, Frigga?” he demanded. “I cannot be lenient with him, after all the damage and bloodshed he has caused!”

She blinked a few times in surprise at his outburst, but she did not have to ask what he was talking about.

“I am not disputing that Loki must face the consequences of his actions,” Frigga responded stiffly.

“If I recall, you tried to dissuade me from banishing Thor, as you felt it too harsh and too permanent, yet I do not now hear you complaining about the change in our firstborn.”

Frigga pressed her lips together in a thin line and dropped her eyes to the table, evidently meaning to let the subject drop. But Odin could not let this unspoken disagreement persist—he felt he could not bear her doubt in him right now. He needed his queen’s support.

“You think I am too hard in my judgment?”

“No. His crimes are grave indeed. But I fail to see the value in this particular punishment—what do you intend to accomplish by it? Thor’s exile was _productive_ , it was meant to teach him to do better. But this, I fear, will do nothing but push our youngest even further away.”

Odin stood, incensed. “You saw how he behaved in court, Frigga! That…stranger spitting in the face of every value we have tried to instill in him!”

“I understand you don’t want to believe he could be so changed—”

“He refuses to listen.” Odin spoke mostly to himself, running a hand agitatedly through his hair. “Or he twists my words to justify his own anger, ascribes sinister motives to everything I do, to feed the flames of his rage. So I will _make_ him listen. Then perhaps he will believe…”

( _You’re my son._

_What more than that?_ )

If Loki had refused to take his words to heart then, before his soul was tainted with all these crimes, then surely he would not hear them now.

Frigga sighed and reached for his hand. “My husband,” she began in a considerably softened tone. “We have been given a second chance, such that few parents are gifted with. Please, I beg you, do not watch helplessly this time as he falls.”

The only thing that stopped Odin from offering a biting retort was the gleam of tears in her eyes—but he nonetheless wrenched his hand from her grasp and turned away. How dare she use that against him—did she not know how tormented with guilt he already was?

“I fear you are reacting in anger,” she continued, “and it is clouding your wisdom.”

He scoffed. No one had ever accused Odin All-Father of acting rashly out of emotion, and with good reason.

“And your maternal instincts around clouding _your_ wisdom,” he snapped, getting up from the table.

 

* * *

 

Days passed, and then weeks, spent pacing and trying to read, but mostly watching the curtains that obscured Thor’s room to see if they would rustle.

Being silenced was a high penalty indeed, and it was no easy task for Loki to pretend that it did not affect him. He could not allow Odin to believe he had in any way broken him—no, he had to stay cool and unaffected, showing no weakness—but inside his prison of quiet, Loki was reeling with horror.

At his sentencing, when the All-Father had looked on him with such scorn, Loki was not surprised. His self-righteous indignation, however, had made bile rise up in his throat, and even now Loki’s fists clenched. It made him think of quite a different voice, kneeling at quite a different throne.

_“I took you in when no other would. I gave you a purpose again, though you were lost and wretched and cast out of your kingdom. I alone do not look on your monstrous form with the disgust it deserves. And how do you repay me?”_

_Loki had tried so hard not to shudder. Thanos would have no pity to spare on him._

_“This insidious idea of family and home has been the source of your unhappiness. Once you surrender yourself, and accept that you have no place, then you will know peace…”_

What was the difference, Loki wondered bitterly, between being Thanos’s prisoner or Odin’s? At least on that barren asteroid he had not been tormented with memories and lies everywhere he looked. Either way, he was expected to bow and scrape and be grateful for every little premeditated kindness.

Yet when the servant brought him a meal, Loki realized there was one great difference between his cages—for Frigga was with him.

She dismissed the servant as soon as he set the tray down, and they were alone.

“My son, you have not eaten since you arrived.”

She used her all-too-familiar tone of fond exasperation, with only an undertone of chiding—so achingly familiar that Loki wanted to cover his ears and block it out, because he could not bear the memories that were surfacing.

Frigga tried to coax him to meet her gaze by placing a hand on his cheek, but he turned away.

“You must eat something, Loki,” she murmured. “Starving yourself will accomplish nothing. You will not force Odin’s hand through childish ultimatums, and you know it.”

She thinks I am going on a hunger strike, he realized. Though he had had some vague notion of frustrating Odin with a small act of defiance, he had not intended them to interpret it so specifically. In truth, he had grown so accustomed to hunger that all of this fine food was unappetizing.

One side of her mouth pulled up into a wry smile. “You may be stubborn, my son, but I assure you that the All-Father’s stubbornness will outlast even yours. He has had a few eons more to practice.”

His lips twitched in spite of himself. Hesitantly, he picked up an apple from the tray and took a small bite. The sweetness was almost painful.

 

* * *

 

Then one day, Thor came. It sent a jolt through Loki to see a burly figure outside the balcony door, knocking.

“May I?” was all Thor said, before stepping inside the sitting room.

Loki opened his mouth, then closed it in frustration. He could not even form words with his lips.

“So it’s true, then,” Thor said. There was unexpected sorrow in his voice. “Mother said…she said that you could not even write any longer.”

It was true. Loki had tried. All communication had been taken from him.

“I’m sure that this will not be permanent, Loki,” Thor said, though he did not sound entirely convinced.

Loki had not made eye contact with Thor since he had entered the room. He handed him a glass of mulled wine, determinedly looking everywhere but at his erstwhile brother, itching his left palm uncomfortably. Loki knew he had done more to hurt Thor than to anyone else—yet here the great oaf was, standing in his quarters, drinking his wine and acting as if nothing had happened.

Well, that was not entirely true. Thor sipped in melancholy silence, when Loki would have expected him to prattle. There was a weight on the crown prince’s shoulders that had not been there before.

But there was no indication that, mere weeks ago, they had fought on opposite sides of a war.

_Am I really so powerless that he is not even afraid to be alone with me?_ Loki wondered. _Or is he truly as foolish as I think he is?_

Still, after a fortnight without any communication between them, Loki had begun to fear that Thor would have nothing further to do with him, that even Thor’s boundless magnanimity had reached its limit. And although his insides were shriveling in shame just admitting it to himself, the overwhelming relief that Thor was still _trying_ made Loki’s eyes sting.

Even if Loki could find the right words—how exactly did one express _I’m glad that I didn’t succeed in killing you_?—he could not make a sound.

Suddenly, Thor said, “Your move.”

He had pulled the ivory chess set out from the cabinet and set up the pieces while Loki’s back had been turned, and now waited with a cautiously hopeful expression.

It was clearly a peace offering, one that Loki was free to accept and reciprocate, or to ignore.

At first, Loki was nettled. _You think being granted a scrap of your attention now makes up for a millennium of living unseen in your shadow? You think you can win me over with something so trite and mundane?_

_You think we can ever return to the way things were before?_

And yet—he was so dreadfully bored. One game of chess could not do any harm, could it?

Let Thor believe he was willing to be brothers again, if that pleased him, but Loki would know his own mind, and that was what mattered. He sank slowly onto the couch across from Thor and deftly moved a black pawn forward.

One side of Thor’s mouth pulled up into the lopsided grin Loki knew so well.

Thor was as terrible at the game as he had always been, yet he expressed no frustration or dismay as he lost match after match. He did occasionally glance up and smile ruefully as Loki rolled his eyes at a particularly unwise move, and Loki could tell he was regretting the void of silence where Loki’s usual quip would be.

To the younger prince’s astonishment, they passed a large portion of the afternoon in this manner, in a quiet only punctuated by the clink of ivory chess pieces and the occasional remark from Thor.

_Where have you learned all this patience?_ Loki marveled. Who was this cautious, thoughtful, gentle crown prince, that stopped to think before making a move, that watched him attentively and tried to decipher his thoughts? Loki could not believe how much his brother had grown up from the spoiled Thor he’d known barely a year ago.

A lump built up in his throat. _We are both so altered in so little time_ , he thought; _like strangers searching for something recognizable in each other._

When Thor finally stood up to leave, Loki’s hand closed involuntarily around his wrist.

“I will return tomorrow, brother,” he promised, squeezing the thin white hand briefly in a hesitant show of affection.

The room was darker after Thor left, and the fire in the hearth didn’t warm Loki as it should have.

 

* * *

 

Thor kept his word. Over the next fortnight, he spent most of his leisure time in Loki’s apartments, playing chess. Loki wondered how he was not bored to tears—he was not much company without his voice, after all.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Loki felt they were beginning to build something together even in the silence. Things were not all well between them—there was too much hurt, too much had been destroyed for their relationship to be the way it had been. But there was _something_. Like a tiny sapling reaching toward the sun through the ashes after a forest fire.

He should have known it was too good to last.

At Thor’s entrance that afternoon, Loki began to set up the chess set, as had become routine. But Thor hovered in the doorway.

“I cannot stay today, Loki,” he said, an apology in his eyes. “Father is sending me to Vanaheim.”

Loki’s mouth opened involuntarily, as if he had forgotten that he could not ask the question on his mind.

Thor advanced a few steps as he explained, “When the Bifröst was destroyed, marauders took advantage of Asgard’s isolation. Now that the bridge is functional again, I must restore order.”

Loki nodded, trying to ignore the coldness spreading through him. He quickly dismantled the chess board and stowed it away, to show that it was no matter.

“I will return before you have a chance to fret for me,” Thor promised with a faint smile.

Loki rolled his eyes to tell him that he planned on doing no such thing—yet when Thor moved toward the door, Loki stood, wishing he could call after him. Thankfully, the scraping of his chair was enough to make Thor turn back.

In a moment, Thor’s hands were on his shoulders and he was looking him earnestly in the eye.

“Do not worry, brother. We have faced much worse during our adventures in Muspelheim. Do not you remember?”

_But then you had me to keep you out of trouble, you dolt._

Loki smiled weakly and nodded, but still felt a gnawing in the pit of his stomach as Thor left.

 

* * *

 

In Thor’s absence, Loki fell into the old malaise once again, and this time he could see no escape from it.

The interminable silence was becoming a tangible stifling presence. Day by day it felt as if an invisible noose were coiling tighter about his throat, that he would choke before long. Sometimes he tried to form words, tried to push the air from his lungs in a scream, but nothing came.

Frigga visited often. Though she would speak cheerfully to him of trivial things, he saw her sharp gaze resting on his sunken eyes and the way his clothes hung loosely on him, and he knew she was troubled.

Loki was not allowed quill pens or even pencils, because all sharp objects had been forbidden him. He rolled his eyes as these strictures were explained to him—did they not realize he could make a weapon out of almost anything if he had the desire?

Thus, it was a surprise to him when the servant who brought his breakfast—the beginning of the third month of his house arrest—presented him with a set of drawing charcoals and rolls of drawing parchment.

“From the queen, My Prince,” the servant explained, then bowed and retreated from the room.

At first, Loki intended to leave the queen’s gifts untouched on the desk in his study out of spite. He had no need of trinkets from her; he would accept no meaningless gestures of comfort.

But as the days passed in tedium, Loki grew weary of pacing and reading and watching the embers burning low in the hearth. His mind needed a whetstone to sharpen it—no, more than that, it needed an outlet, he needed to expel the twisting emotions like draining poison from a wound, before they became utterly savage.

He needed to scream, even if it was a wordless scream.

It was clever of the queen, he had to admit. He could no longer speak, nor write, nor make any communicative gesture more complex than a nod or a shrug. But, he found as he unrolled a scroll and carefully brushed a charcoal across it, _he could draw_.

He cringed at the dark, chalky stain the charcoal left on his fingertips, but it was worth sacrificing a little neatness.

Over the next few days, he contented himself with making crude pictures, childish stick drawings, of Odin meeting various unpleasant and humiliating demises: electrocuted by a bolt of lightning, hanged from the branches of Yggdrasil, falling off the edge of the Bifröst, crushed under the boot of a Frost Giant. Surely this was not the kind of creative expression his so-called mother had had in mind, and he wondered, half in vindictiveness and half in guilt, whether he shocked her with the rude images.

Yet every day, he found a fresh stack of parchment on his desk, and the old scribblings neatly cleared away.

The novelty of his passive-aggressive caricatures soon wore off, however, and it no longer brought him even momentary amusement.

Instead, he found himself drawing nonsensical, abstract images—feverish jumbles of shapes and angles and shadows—tangled and jagged and unquiet—he tried to draw hate, he tried to draw confusion, he tried to draw fear. There was not a recognizable object, though once or twice in a corner of a page Loki would glimpse a texture or shape that seemed familiar. A dark sheen like a raven’s wing. A glint of metal. The curve of a flower petal. A broken shard of mirror.

The contents of his mind bled out onto the dozens and dozens of pages.

The drawings ceased to be a distraction or a way to pass the time. He found himself working late into the night, until his eyes ached from the dim light and the last candle in his study burned out; he found himself waking early to start on them so his hands were dark with charcoal before breakfast. He did not know if he was truly releasing the emotions and thoughts, or numbing himself to them, or perpetuating them—all he knew was that the sketching consumed him and he could not seem to stop.

These scrolls disappeared nightly just as the last ones, and were replaced with a neat stack of unmarked parchment. Loki wondered, in a distant corner of his mind, whether the servants merely disposed of them, or if Frigga actually looked at them.

He knew Frigga visited while he slept, however, because there would be fresh flowers in the vase on his nightstand.

Then, without any conscious decision on his part, concrete figures started to emerge.

 

* * *

 

Engulfing himself in work was the only way that Odin could face the day. If he concentrated on the simple fact that Asgard needed its king—overseeing the reconstruction of the Bifröst, putting down rebellions in Alfheim, adjusting the taxes to pay for more military presence across the Nine Realms—he could go on and pretend that all was well.

But curiosity would always tempt him when he was alone, and he would check on his wayward youngest son with his scrying-glass. He saw him drawing at his desk by candlelight, ignoring his need for food and rest—just as he had pored over his studies in his youth. It was such a familiar scene to Odin that he often had to turn away and dry his eyes, and remind himself that it was not a ghost he was seeing.

At least Loki had managed to start creating something, instead of only destroying.

One morning, Frigga entered his study without knocking—though he quickly realized this was because her arms were full.

She carried a stack of parchment, which she dropped unceremoniously on his desk. “I think you ought to see these, my husband.”

He raised one eyebrow at her, but said nothing as she unrolled the scrolls one by one.

“I asked him to draw himself,” she explained, “and this is what he gave me.”

They were all surreal drawings, angular and sketchy as if drawn in a frenzy, but the figures were unmistakably Loki. One showed his skull cracked open—not bloodied, but shattered, as if his face had been clay. In another, thorny vines twined around his body, wrapping around his throat as he screamed.

Most of the drawings placed Loki in the background, almost swallowed up in darkness, his features blotted out by an angry slash of blue. They were all grotesque, distorted, ugly.

Odin’s serene expression masked his disquiet. Although Loki could have made them simply to spite Frigga, or frighten here, there was such _hate_ on these pages—the utensils pressed so hard to the paper that it broke through in some places.

_So this is how he sees himself…_

“Please, speak with him,” she begged.

“What good would it do, Frigga? He does not listen to me.”

 

* * *

 

One day, Frigga interrupted Loki in his drawing, pulled the chalk out of his hand in the midst of a particularly gruesome self-portrait. He had to blink a few times, struggling to refocus. He had been so absorbed that he had not even heard her come in.

“Oh, my son,” was all she said, but there was such pain in her voice, such quiet sadness in her eyes as she wiped a smear of red chalk from his cheek.

Though he had not completely forgiven her for lying to him, he could not help adoring her all the same, and bringing such heartbreak to her was unbearable. This woman had raised him alongside her flesh and blood, had cherished him despite knowing what he was. She deserved better than this.

Thus, over the next few days, he began to draw pleasant things: pastoral scenes, well-tended gardens, picturesque landscapes. Too picturesque to be real. His heart was not in the task—he hid all of his grisly drawings from her now, shoved into his desk drawer or stowed behind his tapestries—but he wanted to bring her some kind of comfort.

Just as he had feared, she was not fooled in the slightest.

“Loki, I did not intend to make you censor yourself,” she told him. “Please forgive me. I…I want you to speak to me however you can, even if what you have to say is not what I wish to hear.”

He took her hand from his shoulder and brought it to his lips. It was the first time since his return to Asgard that he had returned any of her tenderness—feeble though it was, he hoped it was enough to convey all the things he could not say.

_There must be_ something _truthful in me that is not hideous_ , he thought desperately. _Something that I can say without causing her anguish._

Frigga sat beside him as he finished a sketchy outline of a woman cradling an infant swathed in blankets. It was minimalist, only the suggestion of facial features, but the mother’s pose conveyed tenderness. Then he looked up at her, an unspoken question in his eyes.

She took the blue chalk from its tray and carefully colored in the child’s face. Yet the drawing remained the same, the charcoal-Frigga still held him close.

They sat studying the picture for a while, Frigga squeezing his arm in wordless reassurance. There was nothing really to be said, Loki thought.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, between Frigga’s visits, Odin barged into his quarters. The first time, this was something of a surprise to Loki, for was not the purpose of this punishment to shove Loki away, to fade away and be forgotten? Didn’t he take away Loki’s voice to make him docile and inoffensive?

Odin would deliver some self-righteous speech or another about how he had shamed the memory of their ancestors (a laughable accusation, since Loki shared no blood with the past kings of Asgard), and how childish it was to blame Odin for all of Loki’s regrettable decisions.

After that point in the lecture, Loki would stop listening and let his mind wander. He would keep his face blank and turn toward the wall, resisting the urge to spit at him, for though it might be satisfying, it was also undignified.

“Why will you not listen? Why do you mistrust every word I say?” Odin would throw his hands up in resignation.

 Loki sneered at that. _Why should I listen to you, old man, when you never listen to me? Why are your grievances legitimate, and mine are dismissed as imagined slights?_

Eventually, Odin stopped coming, to Loki’s relief.

 

* * *

 

When Thor returned, it was like seeing an apparition.

Loki had not been keeping accurate account of the time, but it could not have been more than a few months since they had last seen each other. Still, it felt strange. He noticed with some amusement that Thor had clearly come straight from a battle, as his armor was still spattered with mud and blood—he must have concerned visiting Loki of more pressing urgency than cleaning himself up.

“Are you well, brother?”

Loki nodded, more out of habit than truth, then gestured back to him. His eyes scrutinized Thor sharply for any sign of injury.

“Not a scratch,” Thor assured him with a cocky grin. In the awkward silence that ensued, his gaze wandered to the drawings on the easels and sitting on the desk. “Mother said you had taken up drawing. These are quite good. Wherever did you learn?”

Loki shrugged. _Do you expect me to answer, you idiot?_

The picture on the very top of the stack on his desk seemed to interest Thor particularly—his face grew pale as he studied it.

Loki flushed. He’d quite forgotten he had left it sitting out. In his desperation to draw something on his mind that would not disturb Mother, he had sketched what he believed an accurate likeness of Jane Foster.

“But…you never met her, how could you know—?”

From Thor’s reaction, it must have resembled her distinctly. It was true, Loki had never officially met the mortal who had caught his brother’s attention, but he had seen her through Selvig’s eyes when sifting through his thoughts. He found it difficult to hate Jane Foster as fiercely as he wanted to, when viewing through the lens of someone who regarded her almost as a daughter and worried for her constantly. And he was intrigued by anyone who could affect his brother so.

But Loki could not say any of this. He saw the suspicion in Thor’s expression, remembered with a wince that he had threatened her life not so long ago, and realized how ominous this must appear to him.

With no little chagrin, he found he did not want to destroy the fragile brotherhood they had begun to rebuild.

Quickly, he jumped up and handed the portrait to Thor, closing his hands around it firmly to impress the message _yours_.

“You wish me to have this?”

Loki nodded vigorously, and Thor’s wary expression softened a fraction. Surely he recognized this for what it was—a peace offering, a meager attempt at recompense, one that Thor was free to refuse if it was insufficient or unwelcome. Loki trembled, waiting for his response.

“It’s beautiful.”

 

* * *

 

One year. Loki had been under house arrest for one full year, and Odin was not certain how productive his silent contemplation had been. Frigga had long since stopped wheedling him about this punishment, but he knew she still disapproved, and even Thor’s attitude toward Odin had darkened.

Thor even ventured to voice his discontentment.

“Father, I have held my tongue and tried to trust your judgment, because I believed there must be some purpose to this punishment that I am not wise enough to see.”

Odin glowered at him. “And yet you now plead on his behalf. Thor, do you recall the attempts Loki has made on your life? The lives of your friends?”

“My memory still serves me well,” Thor growled. He had become more sarcastic since Loki’s voice was taken, as if he were trying to fill the void of silence and compensate for the absence of Loki’s quips. “When you banished me, Father, you gave me a way back once I had learned. But what way out is there for Loki? I see no end in sight.”

“When he finally learns to _listen._ When he no longer persists in his stubborn denial of responsibility.”

Thor laughed once humorlessly. “And where might he have learned that behavior, Father?”

He was gone before the words could sink in, and Odin was left to his uncomfortable thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Rain pounded against the tall arched windows in Loki’s study—Thor’s anger with his father must not have faded, Odin mused. The king had practiced what he would say all afternoon, but now that he was face with his pale specter of a son, the words stuck in his throat.

“Loki…”

The prince did not spare him a glance. He continued drawing: his slender white fingers skimming gracefully across the page to create a cloud of darkness, a pair of eyes staring through the gloom. It made Odin uneasy, for he had seen this motif of eyes watching in the Void repeated over and over in Loki’s works—the time had come to ascertain whether it was a metaphor, or something more sinister.

He summoned his most authoritative tone. “I have come to a decision about your punishment, Loki,” he announced. Better to pretend this was all his doing, and that Thor and Frigga had had no influence on him. “Make no mistake, you will carry out the rest of your sentence in these chambers until you have shown proper remorse and a desire to make amends for your crimes.”

A muscle in Loki’s jaw twitched, but he did not look up from his paper.

“However, your silence is no longer serving its purpose.”

Startled, Loki’s wide eyes met his.

Odin forced the stilted words out. “If you are ready to talk, my son…then I am ready to listen.”

A tiny nod.

Giving Loki his voice again was like sending a rush of air through his lungs—not painful, but it left him coughing and gasping. Odin conjured a cup of water for him.

“It’s alright, my son,” he said softly; “go on, your voice is your own again.”

So Loki began to speak.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm adding this note because I've gotten this question so many times on this site, on tumblr, and on ff.net: I have no plans to add to this or write a sequel. Sorry to disappoint. :/


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